Robert Bruce"We kill im for yu, masta?"
May 27th 2010 09:01
His name was Smith. Well, not really, but that will do for this yarn. Bill Smith. He was my little boss, the one who causes me all the hassles as he tries to climb the ladder of perceived success in his Govt Dept.
Mind, I did bend the rules here and there in the interests of my perception of the efficient productivity from my bunch of PNG workers. My thoughts were to get a good job done ASAP with a minimum of waste in labour and materials.
I got caught out in one of my rule bending exercises and put on the carpet by Mr W. Smith. I Escaped with a lecture and a Govt issue smack on the wrist.
I met Joe on one of my work sites very soon after. Joe being another expatriate working in PNG and a friend, I started to give him my own version of the happenings at the Office. After the usual greetings I gave him the whole story from my point of view making many disparaging remarks about the said Mr Smith. Joe was, of course, sympathetic to my views and I must admit I was just a tad overcritical of Mr Smith. Joe kept egging me on and I obliged using relatively unprintable adjectives as a means of more forceful description.
My voice was not particularly loud and does not carry well anyway, so I took no notice of the fact that I was only about 30 feet from where my Chimbu labourers were working quietly. They heard every word I spoke and although I was speaking normally in English, I think they understood that Mr Smith was not my favourite person at present.
A quiet voice said quite close to me:
" Masta. Yu no like Mr Smith. Suppose we kill im for you?"
Now I do have a problem. Kundu was not joking. He was offering to remove the cause of my displeasure positively and permanently.
I knew that life for them had a different value than for us expatriates and set about talking him and his cohorts out of contributing to Bill's early demise. Joe, being a true friend, smiled and vanished in the distance.
What a nightmare I had in front of me. How could I reason with my faithful labourers and their boss boy so that Mr Smith would continue to enjoy the pleasure of waking up each morning.
" Kundu. You no kilim Masta Smith. Suppose you kilim finish Govt call it murder and you go to jail. Bomana jail. No got work, no got friends, no got missus, no got picaninni."
I extolled the negatives and invented a few to Kundu who replied:
" Bomana, he alright masta Bob. One year, two year, got plenty kai kai. It's something nothing, masta."
" No way Kundu. You got family, friends at home in village. Who will look after them if you are not there? And what about the coffee plantation you look after? "
"It's all right masta. Plenty wantok look after things for me." Kundu was rather adamant that disposing of the said Smith gentleman posed no real problems.
And so it came to pass that I spent hours convincing my boss boy that Mrs Smith's little boy should remain as is, without any assistance from him and his labourer mates.
I went home that night and slept rather fitfully dreaming of a deceased Mr Smith being unable to front up for work the next day.
Come morning and sure enough Mr Smith was there in all his glory, being as obnoxious as he possibly could to all and sundry without
actually saying anything you could nail him with. I slept uneasily for a few weeks and then forgot about the incident of Mr Smith and the labourers valuation of his life.
Does my life have that same value?
Could my life be ended by someone just as a favour to their friend?
I no longer wonder about, I know.
wantok - extended family member
Bomana - Jail in PNG.
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